“Thought for a moment you were going to say you remembered me.”
Ben stared at the reflected light of the sky on an overhead lamp shade. The porch was crudely made and he felt the rickety wood rail wobble when he leaned back on it.
“I was going to say that this place is so boring. Then I changed my mind and decided to ask your name.”
“That’s OK,” Ben said. He shifted nervously and tried to think of an excuse to leave.
“I can’t remember everyone I meet. Is that a crime.”
The wind gusted down the outdoor staircase and blew discarded papers across the planks of wood. The steps shook as a man of great girth pranced down, smoking a cigar and flicking an ash in Ben’s direction.
“What am I suppose to remember everyone?”
The repetition irritated Ben and he looked away.
The he abruptly turned his head and said in a low voice. “You said you loved me. You were going to move in the next day. Then you went out for a pack of cigarettes and never came back.”
There was stillness in the silence.
Ben walked away. He hated that he wanted to run back. The sunshine shattered the room with slices of light. He ignored passing faces. He turned back to face the window to the porch and saw that it was empty now. And so was he. So was he.